From ‘Snow Bound’
John Greenleaf Whittier
The moon above the eastern wood
Shone at its full; the hill-range stood
Transfigured in the silver flood.
Its blown snows flashing cold and keen,
Dead white, save where some sharp
Took shadow, or the somber green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black
Against the whiteness at their back.
For such a world and such a night
Most fitting that unwarming light,
Which only seemed wherever it fell
To make the coldness visible.